Who Let the Dog Out? (6 page)

Alek didn’t take the easiest way. One reason was that every member of the Russian military, as well as every law enforcement officer, would make their career by putting a bullet in his head. So Moscow was out.

But the other reason was that Alek needed deception and anonymity when he traveled; it was the only way he could get in and out of countries, especially the United States. Part of that process called for his flight into the United States to be from a friendly country, so in this case Alek’s itinerary took him from Tbilisi, to Istanbul, to Frankfurt, to Madrid, and then to JFK.

For each leg of the trip, Alek traveled under a different name and nationality; his various identification documents had been expensive but perfectly prepared. At no time did he use his real name, although by this point in his thirty-four-year-old life he barely remembered what that real name was. His full first name was Aleksandre, but he was known by everyone simply as Alek.

No one had ever questioned him as to what his real full name was; Alek was not a person people questioned. He was a person people feared.

This particular trip to New York took forty-one hours, including a night in a hotel in Madrid. The final leg to New York was delayed two hours, so Alek arrived at three o’clock in the afternoon. He was not tired; being tired was not a luxury that he ever allowed himself.

The only way to describe his demeanor, the only way to ever describe it, was to say that he was alert. And very dangerous.

Alek took a cab into Manhattan, directing the driver to the Michelangelo Hotel, on Fifty-first Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues. He had reserved a large suite; at this stage of his life, comfort was incongruously important to him. And compared to what he would earn for this operation, fourteen hundred dollars a night for the suite was a rounding error.

It was Alek’s third time in New York, and if he had never come back, that would have been fine with him. He liked the energy, but not the people. He mocked the fact that New Yorkers considered themselves tough. Let them grow up where Alek grew up, and then they could talk about tough.

Once he checked into the hotel, Alek went outside to walk around, and to find some food to bring back to his room. He searched the faces of the people he saw, because that was what he was trained to do. But he saw no one that he recognized; nor did he expect to.

Alek would meet with his associate the next day, and it was then that he would fully assess the situation, and decide who he would have to kill. It would likely be a person who was himself dangerous; he would not die easily, but he would die. Perhaps he was going to have more than one target; that would be no problem either way.

He would have much preferred not to have to intervene like this, but time was of the essence, and the operation was far too unique and important to be compromised. Alek would see to it that it wasn’t.

One thing was certain: if Alek wanted people dead, then those people would be dead. No matter what. No matter who.

Judge Lester Klingman will be presiding, and he is more than competent for the task at hand. Of course, Lance Ito could handle this proceeding without screwing it up. All he has to be able to do is ask a few questions, the same ones he’s asked a thousand times before, and know how to read a calendar.

The fact that Judge Klingman is running the show today does not necessarily mean he will be the trial judge. It simply means he got stuck with the temporary short straw; he won’t necessarily preside later on, although there is a definite chance that he will.

It is a sign of how little attention I’ve been paying to this case that I haven’t even bothered to discover who is handling matters on the prosecution side. Once in the courtroom I see that it is Dylan Campbell, a smart, tough, arrogant, obnoxious attorney who I have beaten twice in major cases, and who therefore hates everything about me.

There is no doubt in my mind that Dylan is using his position as a jumping-off point to a hoped-for political career, and it is possible that his two very public losses to me could have slowed that train down somewhat. If so, I’m fine with that.

Dylan comes over and insincerely shakes my hand and welcomes me to the case. “You might want to plead this one out,” he says. “If I let you.”

I smile. “My recollection is that you said the same thing last time. And the time before that. Lucky for my clients they went to trial, huh?”

His smile is fake. “Yesterday’s news. And the word is you’re turning it over to Bulldog’s people. Which may be why Kohl is here?”

He points toward Deb Kohl sitting two rows behind the defense table. “She’ll kick your ass,” I say, and then head back to my spot at the defense table.

I sit next to Tommy, and Judge Klingman enters the courtroom. We listen to him describe the situation as it stands and ask Dylan if he has any motions to present that are not in the record. He does not.

Then the judge asks me if we are ready to enter a plea, and I say that we are. I’m going to leave my withdrawal from the case until the end of the proceeding. I expect a little pushback from Judge Klingman, but not much. A murder case is a daunting undertaking, and if I don’t want to do it, he won’t try to coerce me. Especially since I have a competent replacement waiting in the judicial wings.

There is a decent crowd in the gallery, and quite a few media people. It was a particularly brutal murder, and throat slicing sells. Since I’m going to be slinking off, I’m not pleased that the press will cover it, but it is what it is. I’m a big boy and I can handle it, and if any reporters are particularly mean, I’ll ask Laurie to beat them up.

Tommy and I stand, and the judge asks him how he pleads. He says not guilty, with a touch of shakiness in his voice. His nervousness is very understandable.

The judge takes a few moments to examine the court calendar, so as to set a date for trial. He comes up with one, and the prosecution and I both tentatively agree to it. If I were handling the case I would think it is too soon, but Deb and her client may feel differently. In any event, when she comes on board she will be able to push it back, if that is what she decides.

This thing is wrapping up, and I say, “Your Honor, there is one more item we would like to bring up for the court’s consideration.” I’m about to utter my exit line, when I notice that Sam has entered the courtroom.

He is signaling to me, trying to get my attention, and it seems urgent enough that I ask the judge for a moment so that I can consult with my “assistant.” Things have moved smoothly enough that Klingman obligingly grants my request, though he could have given me a hard time about it.

Sam comes to the defense table, and we talk softly so that no one can hear. “Sam, what is it?”

He seems excited about something. “We found out whose dog it is.”

“Good. Can we talk about it later?”

“I thought you’d want to know, and Laurie said I should get down here and tell you right away.”

Laurie’s involvement in this is surprising: she of all people knows that courtroom proceedings are not to be interrupted. “Okay, so tell me. Whose dog is it?”

“Eric Brantley.”

“
The
Eric Brantley?”

He nods. “Yup. I’m positive.”

I’m about to question him on how he can be so sure, when I hear the judge speaking to me from the bench. “Mr. Carpenter, we’re all waiting.”

I turn back toward him, making a decision while I do so. Unfortunately, based on what comes out of my mouth, I’m obviously not a good decision maker while turning. “We don’t have anything to bring up after all, Judge. Sorry to delay things.”

The judge frowns slightly and adjourns the proceedings. I can see that Tommy is surprised I didn’t withdraw as his lawyer, and I have no doubt that Deb Kohl shares his confusion. Dylan’s face is impassive, but he must be unsure what the hell is going on.

But none of them know what I know.

That this case just got a hell of a lot more interesting.

Gerald Downey’s murder knocked Eric Brantley out of the headlines. Ten days ago, Brantley’s business partner, Michael Caruso, was found murdered in Brantley’s house, the victim of a bullet in the back of the head. The two men, both research chemists, had left their place of employment at Markham College just weeks before, ostensibly to start their own company.

Brantley has not been found, and has been identified by police as the suspect in the killing. Information, at least the information available to the public, has been limited, but that has not deterred, and has in fact increased, speculation.

Rumors abound, and the motive has been called anything from a business dispute to an angry breakup between gay lovers. The fact that there is no evidence that either man was gay doesn’t seem to have stopped the media from raising this possibility.

Of course, a good throat slicing will push a three-week-old shooting off the front page every day of the week, and Downey’s murder proved to be no exception to that media rule. But what Sam has just told me indicates that the two killings might well be related.

As soon as Judge Klingman bangs his gavel Tommy turns to me and says, “What the hell is going on? What did he tell you?”

“We have information that the dog Downey stole was owned by Eric Brantley.”

“The guy who murdered his partner?”

“I don’t think a jury has decided on that yet. You might be familiar with the distinction.” It’s a pet peeve of mine that the public assumes the accused are guilty before trial. Even Tommy, who himself claims to be wrongly accused, has fallen into that trap.

He nods, understanding my not-very-subtle point. “Got it. But what does it mean for me?”

“I don’t know; maybe nothing. But it’s interesting enough to make me want to find out. Unless you want to bring Deb on board now; that’s your absolute right.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll stick with you, as long as you’re in for good.”

Sam is waiting for me, but first I stop and talk to Deb. I tell her what’s happening without getting into specifics. Then I apologize for wasting her time, but she’s fine with it. She probably has twenty other cases to handle, so missing out on this one is her preferred outcome.

When I finally get to Sam, I ask, “Where are we going?”

“The foundation.”

“Drive with me,” I say. “We can pick up your car later.”

On the way I ask Sam to tell me how he can be so sure that Cheyenne is Eric Brantley’s dog.

“Brantley’s girlfriend sent me two pictures of Brantley with the dog.”

“Pictures? That’s it? It’s a shepherd mix. Do you have any idea how many dogs look just like that?”

He’s adamant. “This is the same dog. The pictures are identical, and if you heard her talking about it, you’d believe her also.”

This is a potential nightmare; did I just take on a murder case based on this? Am I that stupid? “Sam,” I say, “the issue is not whether she believes it’s the same dog. I’m sure she does. The issue is whether she is right, simply by looking at a newspaper photograph.”

“Trust me on this, Andy.”

“And Laurie told you to interrupt the hearing to tell me this information?”

“Well, she didn’t say interrupt the hearing. She just said to tell you about it right away.”

I have nothing else to say, so I just moan.

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Sam says. “She’s meeting us at the foundation. By the way, the dog’s name is Zoe.”

Zoe?

As we arrive at the foundation, which is on Route 20, another car pulls up, and a woman gets out. She is in sweatshirt and sweatpants, wearing a baseball cap with her hair pulled through it in the back. She looks like she just came from working out, but she doesn’t look tired. She looks excited.

“Sam?”

“That’s me,” Sam says. “This is Andy. Andy, this is Stephanie Manning.”

We exchange hellos, and then she asks, “Is Zoe inside?”

Before either of us can answer, she’s heading for the door. She opens it and walks in, and we follow her. We have a large play area in the center of the building, where potential adopters can hang out and play with the dogs they are interested in. Willie often brings five or six dogs out there at a time, and he throws a ball with them.

That’s what he’s doing now, and one of the dogs he’s playing with is the dog we named Cheyenne. Willie is facing us, and the dogs are facing him, which means they are not looking at us.

Stephanie yells out, “ZOE!”

All of the dogs turn around, just from the surprise of hearing the sound behind them. But Cheyenne does something the others do not do: she takes one look at Stephanie and races toward her, tail wagging as fast as she can wag it. When she reaches her, she jumps on her, and human and dog start rolling around on the floor.

“I told you,” Sam says. “It’s Eric Brantley’s dog.”

I nod. “Yes, you did, and yes, it is.”

Stephanie plays with her for another five minutes or so, and then we go into the office. Zoe comes with us, because none of us would have the courage or ability to separate her from Stephanie.

I have a lot of questions for her, but she asks the first one. “How did you get her?”

“Animal control found her running stray. They took her to the shelter, and when no one showed up to claim her, we took her.”

“Why?”

“Because she was in danger.” What I don’t say is that she was likely to be euthanized.

Now it’s my turn. “Do you know how she came to be lost?”

Stephanie shakes her head. “No, I assumed that she was with Eric, wherever he is.”

“Why?”

“Because he loves her as much as anyone could love anything. It’s not possible that he went somewhere willingly without her.”

She knows all about Gerry Downey’s stealing Zoe, and his subsequent murder, from the article in the paper. I ask her if she has any idea at all why Downey would have taken her, but she claims she doesn’t, and I believe her.

“Zoe had no tag and no collar. Does that surprise you?”

She shakes her head. “No, I always talked to Eric about that, but he never put one on her. I know it’s stupid, but I think he considered it demeaning to her, like it made it seem she was a possession or something.”